


Conversion Disorder

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>That Mythical Thing,</i> wherein House gave Wilson a second ten-day challenge to find a date.  Here's how that went.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversion Disorder

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the House/Wilson "Dropped Plotline Challenge - Valentine's Day version" on LJ.

 

 

 

About halfway into Wilson’s Ten-Day Challenge: Valentine’s Edition, House managed to forget about it. He'd caught a case with an impressive array of symptoms—from the standard rectal bleeding and projectile vomiting, to the lesser seen hysterical blindness and intermittent muteness. And it had consumed his attention for almost three days.

But now, spying Wilson in a booth with…a woman of some kind, House’s memory was suddenly jogged. As was his “must destroy” response.

“House?” Chase said from behind him in the cafeteria line. “You gonna move or keep staring at Wilson?”

“I can move _and_ stare,” House replied, still focused on his target. “Watch.”

“Great,” Chase dead-panned, following him a few steps forward. “Now can you stare and answer the question I just asked?”

_Question?_

“Sure,” House chirped, looking at him. “The answer is, yes, I love that you’re growing your hair out. Just don’t let it get too Kurt Cobain-y this time.”

He was slightly disappointed when Chase had no reaction. But then, no one could match Wilson when it came to conveying years of anguish in an eye roll or a “Hmm.”

“I asked if you’d ever seen someone who manifested symptoms of conversion disorder and a purely physical illness at the same time.”

_God, what a boring question._

House shrugged. “No one pops to mind. But what’s so shocking? Mentally ill people can get sick. They’re human like you and me, you know.”

That earned him an eye roll. House smirked and was about to continue the verbal abuse when he noticed Wilson’s lunch companion put her forearms on the table and lean forward with a coy smile. He hadn’t perfected his lip-reading skills yet, but he tried to discern what she was saying.

He decided it was “What about tomorrow at eight?” Or possibly “Waterboard torture is great.” Either way, this woman was trouble.

“House. Step up.”

He turned abruptly toward Chase. What the hell did that mean? Chase gave him an odd look then nodded toward the register. “Step up.”

_Oh._

While the cashier rang up his cheeseburger, fries and brownie, House peered at Wilson and The Woman. She wasn’t an oncology nurse; he knew all of them by name. Well, he didn't know their actual names—but he did know their faces, how often they spent time with Wilson, whether any of that time was unwarranted, and similar vital statistics.

When House turned back to the cashier, she was looking at him expectantly. “Oh, right,” he said with a faux embarrassed laugh. Then he gestured toward Chase. “He’s got it.”

There were some half-hearted sounds of protest, but House blocked them out. He had a courtship-in-progress to bust up.

Partway to Wilson’s table, though, he stopped in his tracks. _What am I doing?_

He’d given Wilson ten days to find someone, and now he was stalking over to prevent that from happening. That had to be a violation of the challenge rules—although House couldn’t recall setting any that pertained to him.

He stood frozen on the spot, debating whether to go with his gut or actually honor Wilson’s right—no, _need_ —to interact with others. That was when Wilson looked his way and made eye contact.

 _Uh-oh._ House fully expected to get the “don’t you dare” glare. To his surprise, however, Wilson gazed at him with…curiosity? Or at least something that wasn’t bitchiness. He wasn’t sure what to do with that. If he’d gotten the “don’t you dare” glare, his response would be clear. He’d dare.

House realized he had to make a move. Just standing there, tray in hand, was fairly pathetic. So he nodded at Wilson then set off in search of a table—somewhere far from the two love birds. He could let Wilson spend time with someone else; but that didn’t mean he had to watch it.

 

*******

 

“So…What are you doing tomorrow night? Say, around eight?” House casually tossed his red ball in the air and caught it with practiced ease, keeping his eyes on Wilson, who was sprawled out on his Eames lounge.

“Umm.” Wilson put a hand over his eyes like a visor.

_Classic delay/subterfuge tactic._

“I…Well, I don’t have definite plans. What’s up?”

House hadn’t thought that far ahead. “There’s a Bond marathon on Spike,” he ventured—since chances were it was true.

“Mmm,” Wilson nodded. “They only have those, what? Eight times a month?”

House nodded in return. “And yet it really never gets old, does it?”

Wilson exhaled a soft laugh, and House felt a smile tugging at his lips. “OK,” Wilson agreed. “I’ll grab some food and come by.”

House was surprised, but managed to keep his face impassive. Still, he had to ask. “You don’t have a date with that mystery woman from the cafeteria?”

Wilson hesitated. “Not tomorrow night,” he said cryptically.

 _Oh._ House frowned, remembering the cafeteria scene. “At lunch today…Did she happen to mention her views on waterboarding?”

Wilson blinked. “I can’t even pretend to follow that.”

“It’s a valid question,” House insisted, putting his feet up on the desk. Then he paused to eye Wilson. He wasn’t exactly upset there was no date tomorrow night, but that begged a question.

“So why not tomorrow? Need I remind you your ten days are up at the stroke of midnight Tuesday? And Saturday _is_ the classic date night.”

Wilson held up a hand. “I fully intend to meet your deadline.”

 _Fantastic._ “Fantastic. And you realize it has to be a real date? You need to shave, wear a suit, buy her a corsage. The standards.”

“I remember what a date is.” Wilson paused before adding, “So I’m clear, though, do I also have to, y’know…seal the deal?”

“No,” House replied, probably a bit too sharply. “I mean,” he backtracked, “if she takes pity on you and is actually willing, you probably shouldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

“Yes. I’d hate to miss out on Valentine’s pity sex.”

A moment later, Wilson stood up and began to stroll toward him. “You know what I don’t get, House?” He stopped in front of the desk and crossed his arms. “You push me to get out there and meet someone, and then you mock the idea that a woman would actually want me. I’m getting a lot of mixed messages.”

House had no immediate response, which was an unusual feeling. A quip was obviously in order, but looking at Wilson's face—clear and open, with none of the usual sarcasm or exasperation—he felt weirdly tongue-tied.

Luckily, he spotted his team striding toward his office. Sometimes they were useful.

“Well,” Taub announced, barely through the doorway. “You can add seizures to the list.”

House shrugged. “Hardly unexpected. Seems to be the typical sequela after rectal bleeding and vomiting.”

Wilson quietly backed away to the refuge of the Eames chair, and House turned his attention to Park, who was whining about pathophysiological mechanisms.

“Conversion disorder can cause seizures, too. I think it can explain everything.”

“The bleeding out of his arse?” Chase challenged. “The white blood cell count through the roof?—”

“Severe stress,” Park squeaked. “Whatever trauma triggered the conversion disorder is causing all of his problems.” She looked at House in earnest. “He needs a psychiatrist.”

Taub shook his head. “He had a psych consult. And he and the wife say there’s been no traumatic experience.”

“Ohhhh,” House interjected. “Then it’s definitely true.”

Taub smirked. “So you think this is all the result of conversion disorder?”

House noticed Wilson perk up at that. _Of course._

He sighed and refocused on Taub. “I think we don’t know. Until we find a neurological explanation for why this guy temporarily goes blind, mute or immobile, conversion disorder is on the table.”

“Wait,” Wilson piped up. “You’re open to the idea that his physical symptoms have a mental cause? How Freudian of you.”

House craned his neck to get a direct view of the snarky bastard. “I am aware that the mind affects the body. When I think of you, for instance, I get butterflies in my tummy…Or maybe it’s indigestion. Hard to tell.”

Wilson somehow ignored the awesome burn. “And you don’t think he could be faking? He could be using a toxin to create some of the symptoms...Or maybe the wife is giving him something.”

House looked at his team. “He’s obsessed with _Law & Order_ reruns.”

He returned his attention to Wilson. “We did think of that. Nothing on the tox screen. He also tested negative on my bullshit panel. He didn’t flinch when I pretended I was gonna punch him. He didn’t make a peep when I proposed a spinal tap without anesthesia. He didn’t laugh when I said Taub was handsome…”

“Oh-kay,” Taub broke in. “Let’s get back on point.”

Chase held up a hand. “I still say he and the wife are lying about their carefree lives, and he does have conversion disorder. But I think he also has some organic disease we haven’t considered.” He looked at House. “He’s had almost every neuro test in the book. We’re not gonna pin all of his symptoms on one magical neurological cause.”

“Ah,” House pointed at him. “The key word is ‘almost.’ You haven’t gotten through my orders yet.”

“No,” Taub conceded.

“Well, then why are you here? Wilson and I were about to have a heart-to-heart.”

Chase glanced around the room then turned to House. “Whose heart were you gonna use?”

House wagged an index finger. “Don’t sass me. Daddy asked you to get some more brain scans…Now run along.”

All three of them were visibly disturbed by the idea of being his spawns, and House allowed himself to smile in satisfaction as they filed out of his office. His smugness quickly faded, though, when he remembered he was once again alone with Wilson.

But as fortune would have it, Wilson seemed to have gone suddenly shy. He stayed on the other side of the room, hands in his pockets and eyes aimed at his prissy shoes. House just peered at him and waited for him to speak first.

“Pretty interesting case,” he finally said.

House shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah.” Wilson rubbed the back of his neck briefly, then let his arm fall to his side. “Well, I’m gonna head home.” He looked at House. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

House nodded and Wilson left without another word.

 _OK._ Maybe in all the conversion disorder excitement, Wilson had forgotten the whole issue of House’s contradictory words and deeds. Or maybe he’d decided it wasn’t worth pursuing after all.

 _Fine with me._ As Chase pointed out, he was at a distinct disadvantage when it came to heart-to-hearts. So really, House thought, he should be relieved. He tossed his ball in the air and caught it. And then he did it again. He figured he should start to feel relieved any time now.

 

*******

 

House had to admit, he was glad to see Wilson already settled on his couch when he got home. Well, he admitted it in his head. What he actually said was, “You know _mi casa, su casa_ is just a saying, right? And it’s not even English.”

Wilson kept his eyes on the TV. “You’re late and I was hungry. Your food’s in the oven.”

“Chicken tikka masala?”

“Of course. And a vegetable samosa.”

House dropped his chin and smiled a little. He really was glad Wilson let himself in. He’d been called in that afternoon, and coming home to the warm scents of Indian food and the comforting sight of Sean Connery was…nice.

“OK. I guess you’re forgiven for trespassing,” he grumbled as he limped to the kitchen.

“Mm-hmm.”

As promised, House found a foil-covered plate staying toasty in his oven. “I brought some wine, too,” Wilson called from the living room. “On the counter.”

House spotted the bottle of Pinot gris and paused. This was unusual. “Why, Jimmy,” he cooed. “You’re certainly pulling out all the stops.”

No response. _Huh._ House poured a glass of wine, grabbed his plate, and joined Wilson on the couch.

“Very bold of you,” he said as he set his glass on the coffee table. “This is a difficult pairing, you know.”

Wilson looked at him sharply. “What?”

House sat back. “Wine with Indian food. It’s hard to get right.” He studied Wilson’s face, which seemed to quickly dial down from borderline freak-out to annoyed relief.

“I have a lot of experience with difficult pairings,” Wilson muttered. “Now shut up. It’s _Dr. No,_ your favorite…There has got to be a metaphor in there somewhere.”

“Ugh,” House said around a mouthful of samosa. “God, no metaphors.”

Wilson did his weary head-shake thing, but House could see he was fighting a smile. They slipped into their routine then, eating and watching TV in amiable silence—broken only when Ursula Andress emerged from the sea in her two-piece bathing suit.

“One of the great moments in cinematic history,” House intoned.

“It rivals any scene in _Citizen Kane._ ”

House nodded, reaching for his glass. He had to hand it to Wilson—his wine choice actually worked. It toned down the spiciness of the food, and its own subtle flavors weren’t lost.

“This is good,” he found himself saying.

Wilson looked at him in mild surprise. “Um, thanks.”

House drained his glass then held it out. “I could use some more.”

Wilson rolled his eyes but, predictably, nabbed the glass. “I wanted more anyway,” he clarified before pushing to his feet and shuffling off. House smirked at his retreating back.

“So what’s up with your case?” Wilson said from kitchen. “I assume that’s why you weren’t here.”

 _Oh, right._ “Yeah,” House said as Wilson returned with their wine. “Uh, sorry—I should’ve…” He waved a hand to indicate whatever it was he should’ve done.

“Well,” Wilson sighed, sitting down, “it wasn’t hard to figure out what happened.”

House turned to him and batted his eyelashes. “You’re gonna make some lucky doctor a wonderful wife one day.”

“Looking forward. Did you solve the case?”

“Neuro tests have come up empty.”

“So…You think it really is conversion disorder?”

House rubbed a hand over his stubble. “It fits the random Helen Keller moments. But we’ve got no explanation for the thrombocytopenia or the WBC count. No infection. It’s not CLL—”

“What about drugs? Legal ones, I mean. Some antibiotics lower platelets and raise white blood cells—”

“There’s nothing in his record, and they claim he was healthy as a horse before the sudden blind/mute/paralysis thing.”

“And you believe them?”

“Of course not.” House shrugged. “But right now I’ve got no evidence to refute them.”

Wilson looked thoughtful—which, in House’s experience, often preceded trouble. He braced himself. But a moment later Wilson just shrugged a shoulder and said, “Well, the mind can be very powerful.”

House blinked. “Wow. That’s some trailblazing insight.”

Wilson cast his eyes skyward. “I’m not trying to blaze trails. I’m just pointing out that our minds can…paralyze us. Or, or…”

“Yes, yes?”

Wilson exhaled loudly. “Forget it.” He turned back to the TV.

House mentally flinched. He didn’t actually want to shut Wilson down, but he’d somehow never developed that “Tell me what you’re feeling” aura many normal people seemed to have. Of course, he’d never tried to develop one, either.

He shook his head. “No. Where were you going with that? You think all of his signs and symptoms can be blamed on his fucked up mind?”

Wilson ignored him in favor of pouting. But House knew he just had to wait that out before Wilson’s desire to expound overwhelmed his hurt feelings.

“I don’t know enough to diagnose him,” he finally said. “I’m just saying, when your mind gets a grip on you…When you have these ways of thinking that you’re not even conscious of most of the time—it’s powerful. _Fear_ can be…Fear can take over everything.”

Wilson paused and looked down abruptly, obviously thinking he’d said too much, and House felt himself pressing his lips together. It was like his body was trying to keep him from blurting out something he’d regret.

They sat like that for what seemed like minutes, but could really only have been seconds. A part of House wanted to keep quiet and resume the Bond marathon. But looking at Wilson’s bowed head, his resignation—House mostly wanted to stir him up.

“Fear is an excuse,” he said flatly. Wilson lifted his head, eyes widening a bit.

“If fear is causing all of my patient’s problems,” House said, “then he needs to do something about it and stop wasting my time.”

He held Wilson’s gaze for a moment, unblinking. Wilson didn’t look away, but he also didn’t make any other move. He was frozen.

House reached for his wine glass. “Fear is treatable,” he muttered before standing up and heading for the kitchen. Why, he didn’t know, since his glass was still almost full. But a dramatic exit seemed appropriate.

When he got to the kitchen, House put his glass down and leaned on the butcher block island. He wasn’t even sure why he was pissed at Wilson; he’d just been babbling as per usual. He’d just been talking about House’s case, trying to help him figure it out.

_That’s all…_

There was a sound of creaking floorboards, and when he turned around Wilson was standing in the doorway. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and House started to feel uncomfortable—almost awkward. Which did not sit well.

He opened his mouth to unleash a devastating wisecrack, just to regain a foothold on the situation. But then Wilson moved toward him, not stopping until he was only inches away and House had to look down a bit to meet his eyes. His expression was some mix of anger, confusion, maybe fear.

The last time House saw a look like that, he’d gotten socked in the face. Actually, he realized, Wilson looked exactly as he did that day he’d stalked into House’s office and—

He got no further with that thought because Wilson’s hands were suddenly on his face. There was a surreal instant where House wondered what was happening, but then it became clear. Wilson’s lips were on his—tentative and just barely there, but definitely there. Of that, House was sure. And then his mind went everywhere at once.

He wanted to shove Wilson away and land a right hook. He wanted to shove Wilson against the wall and get his hands under that t-shirt. He wanted to…do something.

But all House could do was stand there, arms limp, feeling those lips and not quite believing it. It seemed a bit like drowning, and yet he didn’t actually mind it too much.

In fact, he started to notice just how soft Wilson’s lips were—how surprisingly soft his hands were. And with each second, he was liking the sensations more and more.

But then the contact was gone. Wilson had pulled back and was now looking at him, eyes huge and face flushed.

“I—I,” he stammered, backing farther away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

He seemed to be waiting for some reaction. _Of course he is,_ House thought dimly.

He watched as Wilson’s eyes glistened all of a sudden, and his face twisted into a grimace. _Do something,_ House’s rational mind ordered. _Say words._

Before he could, though, Wilson dropped his head and turned abruptly, disappearing from his sight. And that did it.

“Hey,” House finally found his voice. “Hey, wait.”

He limped into the living room to find Wilson already grabbing his things. “I said I’m sorry,” Wilson snapped, moving toward the door with only one arm in his coat. Then he stopped short and looked back to the table where he’d apparently dropped his keys.

As he scrambled to grab them, he kept his head down and spoke in a low, shaky voice. “Don’t make it worse, House,” he pleaded. “Please.”

“Wait,” House said again, sounding more like himself.

Wilson came to a halt just shy of the door. “Why?” he ground out, still facing away. “You can’t wait till Monday to ridicule me?”

“No,” House blurted then winced. “I mean—That’s not what I meant.”

Wilson laughed humorlessly then grabbed at the back of his neck. Not good—but at least he was still in the apartment. House took a few cautious steps forward; he wanted to reach out, maybe put a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. But he was a little worried Wilson really would slug him this time.

“I—I don’t wanna ridicule you,” House said, inching closer and wishing he had his cane to lean on.

Wilson snorted at that, putting both hands on his hips. _Good. Tougher stance. He won’t run now._

“Really,” House assured, getting as close as he dared. “But can you turn around and look at me? ’Cause now you’re just being rude.”

Wilson slowly turned but kept his eyes down. His jaw was set, and tension was radiating from his body. House swallowed; easing tension was not his specialty, and he was fairly certain he was going to fuck this up. But the alternative was to let Wilson go.

“Um.” House hesitated, feeling pathetic and hating it. “What do you want me to say?”

Wilson barked a surprised laugh and looked at him. “Seriously?”

His eyes were watery, and House got a little panicky at the idea of Wilson crying in front of him. He’d rather get punched.

Luckily, though, Wilson didn’t seem ready to collapse in a heap and weep.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said angrily. “You’ve been calling me out for not making a move—for being a-a myotonic _goat._ Twice, you have practically dared me to…” He flapped a hand toward the kitchen, in lieu of the words “kiss you,” presumably.

“And now,” Wilson continued, “you want me to tell you what to say?”

House looked off to the side because he couldn’t stand the expression on Wilson’s face. “Well,” he mumbled, “when you put it that way…”

Wilson shook his head. “Oh-hoh! You are unbelievable.”

“Hey,” House couldn’t help but defend himself. “You took me by surprise, OK? You just sauntered up to me with your big fat lips and…I didn’t know how to react. And now I’m trying…”

He paused, realizing he was practically yelling, then took a deep, steadying breath. “I don’t want you to go.”

Wilson’s face softened, just a little, and House found himself staring at those big fat lips. Those lips he wanted to kiss again. Well, not _again,_ since he hadn’t actually participated back in the kitchen. He wanted to kiss them for the first time.

“House?”

“What?”

Wilson sighed in frustration. “Is that all you have to say?”

House flitted his gaze from Wilson’s lips to his eyes, then back to his lips.

“Yes,” he said before stepping forward and cupping Wilson’s face. He paused briefly, to make sure this was OK. Wilson’s breath hitched, and House took that as a green light.

He leaned in and lightly pressed his lips against Wilson’s. At first, he got no reciprocation—the little bastard was probably giving him a taste of his own medicine.

But House kept at it, laying down a succession of soft, quick kisses before lingering to gently tug on Wilson’s bottom lip. He could sense the tension beginning to melt under his hands, and he felt bold enough to flick his tongue out and brush Wilson’s lips.

At that, Wilson moaned softly and opened his mouth to let House’s tongue slip in. Various distress codes started firing in House’s brain—things like, “Your tongue is in your best friend’s mouth. Remove at once.”

But House decided to disregard the warnings and slide a hand into Wilson’s hair. An instant later he felt fingertips land lightly on his back, and he couldn’t help the little shudder that moved through him.

He also couldn’t help but notice that a significant amount of his blood supply was moving southward. Maybe this needed to slow down.

House pulled back slightly from the kiss, but kept his hands on Wilson so he didn’t get the wrong idea. He pressed their foreheads together and only then realized how fast his heart was beating.

“I, uh, just need a moment here,” he said, a bit breathless.

Wilson put his hands on House’s forearms and eased away from the somewhat awkward embrace. Once House was able to focus, he could clearly see the questioning in Wilson’s eyes—like he thought this could still be some kind of colossal prank.

House felt a twinge of hurt that he would think that, but he also had to admit it was justified. So there was really only one way to respond: He grabbed Wilson’s face again and dove back in for more—just to clarify his position on the matter.

The next time they broke for air, it was obvious Wilson was more convinced. He looked a little woozy, and even swayed on his feet—much to House’s inner delight—but the doubt seemed to have vanished.

As they both caught their breath, House noted a dopey grin spreading across Wilson’s face. “What?” he demanded.

Wilson looked at him with a gleam in his eyes. “I told you I’d meet your deadline.”

It took a beat for House to even remember the stupid challenge. _Oh, yeah._ He glanced around the room in mock confusion. “Where’s my corsage?”

Wilson giggled. The dork. “Forgot that part,” he admitted, before looking down at his t-shirt and jeans. “The suit, too, I guess…But I did shave.”

“I noticed. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.” House waggled his eyebrows. “I can only imagine how smooth your bottom must be.”

Wilson’s cheeks reddened, and House held up a hand. “Sorry—too fast? I mean, I know we’ve only known each other for twenty-one years.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Let’s sit. Your leg must be killing you.”

House couldn’t deny that. He’d been ignoring it to deal with other, more pressing feelings, but he was definitely needing some time off his feet. He considered making a dirty remark to that effect, but figured that might be too much for the first…date?

_Christ. Is that what this is?_

Then it struck House that he didn’t even know what “too much” was with Wilson. He was a guy, after all. House could probably just say, “Hey, wanna fuck?” and he wouldn’t be offended. Right?

“House? What’s wrong?”

He looked at Wilson, who was now on the couch, and realized that he hadn’t moved from where he stood. “Nothing,” he said, rounding the couch and plopping down.

And then they sat there, in silence, pretending to be acutely interested in whatever Honey Ryder was doing. For a good long while. Eventually Wilson cleared his throat. “So…This is incredibly awkward.”

House huffed a laugh, glad that Wilson said it first. “Yep.”

“Sooo, should we talk about…”

House wrinkled his brow. “I’d rather not.”

Just like that, the doubt returned to Wilson’s face. House sighed. “Saturday night is date night,” he explained, slowly. “Sunday is the day when you talk about what happened on date night.”

Wilson’s eyebrows shot up. “This is a date?”

House shrugged. “Feels like one. Well, almost. You still have to let me touch your boobs.”

Wilson shook his head but couldn’t quite hide a small smile. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

House was about to agree, but then a different thought hit him. He looked at Wilson and tried to adopt a casual air. “Just out of curiosity,” he said. “Does this means you’ll be canceling your date with that cafeteria hussy?”

Wilson bit his lip and shook his head slightly. “No,” he said lowly.

House felt his stomach drop. _Oh._

Then Wilson looked at him sheepishly. “There, uh, never was a date. She’s from Legal. We were talking about informed consent forms.”

House’s mouth fell open. “But you—you let me believe…”

Wilson held up his hands. “I thought maybe you’d get jealous enough to finally make a move.”

“Me?” House said incredulously. “The challenge was for you, you idiot.”

“Well,” Wilson said in that irritating way he had, “I was running my own secret challenge on the side—to get _you_ to make a move on _me._ But tonight I realized just how incredibly dense you are, and I had to do it myself. Of _course._ ”

“What do you mean, _of course?_ ”

“What part of _of course_ eludes you?”

Looking at Wilson’s flashing eyes, House suddenly felt very hot. And it wasn’t from anger. He realized, or was finally willing to admit, that something about sparring with Wilson turned him on.

“Hey,” he said, his voice sounding gravelly. “Remember when I said you didn’t have to seal the deal to win the challenge?”

Wilson blinked, and House shifted closer, trapping him in the corner of the couch. “I was totally lying.”

As realization dawned, the color crept back into Wilson’s cheeks. “Well,” he said coyly, before grabbing a handful of t-shirt and pulling House fully against him. “I do like to win.”

House wrapped his arms around Wilson and buried his head in his neck, breathing the scent of his skin and his stupid coconut shampoo. Smiling a little, he brought his lips to Wilson’s ear. “Me, too.”

 

 

_—Curtain Falls_  



End file.
